It is not uncommon to find walls and fences along the coast of Hookland decorated in apotropaic hope. Fetishes of fish and anchor, net and float. As if invasion from King-Under-the-Sea is feared and the owners with to say ‘a friend of the waves lives here’.

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There is not always a Stay Below under the surface, but there is always something - a spirit if you will - that whispers to us. It often whispers to me of its desire to feast on the flesh of something other than ducks. - Katherine Gidding, Hookland artist, 1938

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There are no Hookland Christmas cards for me to send or you to buy this year (next year may be different), but that doesn't mean I don't wish you all a merry Christmas - when the pagan past laughs loudly while wearing its Christian clothes.

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The edge of the woods at twilight, or as some Hooklanders call it, ‘the hour of blue teeth’. Some things come to roost, some things, sometimes the worst of things, wake.

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She said there was music in places like
A strange, alien music that swam in the wind and twisted between the wires.
From Grandma's Album

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Dawn will not quieten all the spirits of the wood. - Trad. Hookland aphorism

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A child does not grow up with the lie that all Faery or Other Folk are ‘fair of face’.

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A 16th century depiction of the Bone Harrower, one of the more fearsome folklore beasts of Hookland.

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Artists seem to dream strange within the borders of Hookland.

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There are roads in Hookland that make maps a lie. Roads that exist purely to lose travellers. -

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An early the Black Bold, one of the creatures said to inhabit Hookland's George-in-the-Dark cave.

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